


What Someday Means

by Paranormal_Shitness



Category: Batman - Fandom, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Character Study Not Porn, F/M, Father/Daugther, Implied Sexual Content, Incest, Mildly Implied Posession, Mother/Son, One Shot, gothic horror, not actually explicit, pre 52
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22010035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranormal_Shitness/pseuds/Paranormal_Shitness
Summary: “Damian,” she says to him when they’re alone and the sky is dark, “Someday the Demon’s Head will be gone.”He knows what someday means. He is ready.
Relationships: Talia/Ra’s, implied! talia/Damian, past! Talia/Bruce
Kudos: 23





	What Someday Means

She stops, and he stops moments after her, the feeling of cold on his back. The air still. The knowing loud in his ears, almost deafening. She does not turn around, and so he does not turn around. Instead, they stand in the hallway motionless, eyes forward, feet planted on the floor mid step. He can feel it move past him. The cold. A wisp of it teasing at his temple and sliding past his lips on the air he breathes.

She is motionless, like a statue, the bottom of her draped dress the only thing showing any traces of her previous movement, fluttering gently at her ankles, turned like proper Greek stone. Painted Greek stone. An image out of the past.

He can't see the coldness. Instead he knows of it touching her, and continuing it's trek past them as a secondary gnosis. Maybe he sees it in a prickling on her skin. Or not at all. As the mother of the seed of the demon she certainly isn't afraid even in instinct. Monsters do not feel fear in the night. They are not afraid. 

Then as soon as it's come it's over. And as though they hadn't just frozen in time, she simply begins to move again so he begins to move again moments after.

The hallway continues to be just a hallway. Each door just a door. The creeping cold continues on ahead of them. Invisible as most of these things are.

She does not speak and he does not speak. It isn't safe to do it in the hallways, or it never feels it is. It always feels as if the walls of the house are watching. Granfather's eyes in every motif and carving. The anxiety of that cold touch is unmentioned. Shared in mutual, uncomfortable silence. Instantly forgotten. A regrettable norm.

His mother's fingers twitch at her side but he pretends not to notice.

The chamber where the pit is interred in the earth is always the epicenter of such activity. He doesn't even question the feeling of a rolling cold spell passing them on their way to it. He doubts she does either.

The doors open for them as they approach, drawn by the hands of loyal followers. They bow. This is normal. 

He doesn't react to the smell. The sulfur in the air is a comfort. The chemical sting in his eyes is homely. The cold marble of the chamber floor burns on the bottom of his feet but he doesn't react to that either. It's normal. This is the way things are.

The 'waters' of the pit are sick and green. They churn with their own life. With her hands on his shoulders, she leads him to the edge.

His mother's fingers trail through it, and it washes over them, pale, luminescent. It seems to leap into her palm when she cups her hand.

"Here, love," she says softly, as she brings her fingers to his lips and tilts her hand up.

The water burns like hell fire in his throat and it is normal.

Blood is normal. And so is screaming. Pain is normal. And so is death. These are truths. All Roads lead to death. A general must know the road and swear fealty to death.

Even the head of the demon grows weak and frail in the waters of Lazarus. Their sickly green glow can't hold back the tide of truth forever. But Grandfather has lived a long time. Grandfather has lived for centuries. 

He spends whole days in the waters now. Soaking, feeding on their life.

His mother sits with him in his bath often, but he himself is not allowed to swim in the holy waters. 

Someday, when he is old enough they will sustain him, but not until he's grown. For now he drinks it from his mother's hands and nothing more. 

She tells him it's sweet. It tastes like salt and sweat, and bodily fluids. Blood, and tar. It's thicker than it ought to be, clings to his insides too viscous for it's appearance. His nose tingles with the after taste of burnt tea with vinegar instead of lemon. He craves it when he's denied it.

Their attendants watch them touch the water in jealous awe. They are lucky and chosen. 

Grandfather is lucky and chosen.

He watches his mother draw close to her father. Their skin touches under the water but the water is in him and so he sees everything.

Mother is beautiful. Her skin is softer than the finest furs in the world. Only special people are permitted to touch her, Only important men can put their hands on her body. She tells him he will be an important man. Just like his father. 

He understands.

He's eager.

She watches him while grandfather's hands are on her and he watches grandfather's hands.

“Damian,” she says to him when they’re alone and the sky is dark, “Someday the Demon’s Head will be gone.”

He knows what someday means. He is ready.


End file.
